Once a Marine (Those Marshall Boys)

by Loree Lough

  Maybe the best course of action here was inaction.

  Zach changed lanes, took the ramp onto Route 70, and turned the radio back on.

  “What’s your preference? Soft rock? Country? Jazz?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I like everything but rap.”

  At least she didn’t sound angry anymore. If he had to, he’d put up with the silent treatment for the remainder of the drive. He’d tried to see things from her point of view. Why couldn’t she do the same where his family was concerned?

  Considering how close he’d come to donning his rusty suit of armor—again—she couldn’t have chosen a better time to act moody and self-interested.

  Zach settled on his favorite country station, where George Strait was midlyric. Summer let the song finish then reached over and turned down the volume.

  “I’d just like to say one thing, and that’ll be that.”

  He tensed. “Okay…”

  “I don’t confide in very many people. Not so much because I have trust issues—because to be honest, I do. I keep things to myself because it isn’t fair to saddle others with my petty problems.”

  He’d hardly call what she survived petty, but she was on a roll, so Zach kept his opinion to himself.

  “I made a mistake, sharing some of the details of that night with Libby. A big mistake.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because everyone—all day long—treated me with kid gloves. Like they knew I’d been attacked and held captive for hours.”

  Held captive. Zach ground his molars together. Were the words as hard for her to say as they were for him to hear them?

  He swallowed. Hard. How many more secrets was she harboring?

  “Only gloves I saw were the ones we wore when we went riding.”

  She huffed quietly. “Look. I don’t want or need pity. Not yours, not theirs.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I realize it’s a natural reaction to…”

  She took a deep breath. So deep that it made Zach wish he’d wiped down the dash before picking her up, because she’d probably just inhaled a million dust motes.

  “I want to be in control of who knows what happened to me. And I want to be the one who decides how much they know. Few things make me feel more uncomfortable than seeing sympathy on people’s faces.”

  It made sense, but he didn’t understand what his family had done to make her think they felt sorry for her.

  “Do you think Libby said something to my folks?” he said after a moment of edgy silence.

  “If you didn’t, then I don’t know how else to explain the way they behaved.”

  “Honestly, I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The way they were today? That’s just the way they are.”

  She stared out the passenger window, where mile markers winked, and the snow covering the highway glittered in the headlights. It almost seemed that Summer was trying to give him reasons to distance himself from her. It was what he wanted, so why, instead of relief, did he feel regret?

  Zach made a mental list of reasons to keep her at arm’s length.

  One: Libby was right; Summer was vulnerable.

  Two: she could revert to her old hermit-like ways at any moment, and where would that leave them?

  Three: What if Summer had inherited her parents’ self-indulgent, nomad-like tendencies?

  She had good qualities, he’d give her that. But he resented her for putting him in the position of defending his family or defending her.

  Suddenly, it seemed the perfect time to stand his knight’s suit in the corner, once and for all. He couldn’t admit it to Libby, of course, not without also admitting he’d considered putting it on.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “SORRY FOR THE last-minute change, ladies,” Zach said, “but I’m short an instructor, so we’ll need to merge the beginner and intermediate classes. And it looks like you’re stuck with me until the session ends. Emma is in Boulder, taking care of her ailing grandma.” He held up a hand to silence their concern. “I talked with her earlier, and she said things are going as expected.” He explained that for the past ten years or so, Emma’s grandmother, now ninety, had been suffering from congestive heart failure.

  “How long will she be gone?”

  He’d almost forgotten that Luke’s flirty, divorced mom, Cecile, had signed up for this class.

  “I have no idea. But it’s safe to assume she won’t be back to finish up this session.”

  “Will you let us know when you hear more?”

  “Sure,” he said, though he didn’t understand the woman’s interest in a total stranger. “Of course.”

  Summer raised her hand, reminding him of a kid in school.

  “You’re planning to visit her from time to time, though, right?”

  Why did the question sound like an accusation?

  “If I can,” he admitted.

  “Then on my way to class on Wednesday, I’ll pick up a card. We can all sign it, let Emma know she and her grandma are in our thoughts and prayers.”

  “That’s a great idea, Summer,” said one woman.

  “Zach, if you know which hospital she’s in, I’ll arrange to have flowers delivered to her room,” Cecile cut in.

  Alex stepped forward to say, “That’s really nice of you, Mrs. Murphy, but Emma told me once that her grandma is allergic to, like, everything.” He glanced at Zach. “Kinda the way Mr. Marshall is allergic to starting class late.”

  The women laughed, and when Summer gave Alex a thumbs-up, he blushed.

  Long before Zach met the Petersons’ reclusive neighbor, Rose told him how her son felt about Summer. In typical Rose fashion, she’d shrugged it off as a teenage crush, and at the time, Zach had agreed. Now he hoped Alex’s doting behavior wasn’t proof that yet another male had succumbed to Knight in Shining Armor Syndrome.

  Zach clapped his hands, as much to clear his head as to gain their attention. He announced that Alex would lead their warm-up exercises, then went to the office to find Emma’s lesson plan. Tonight she would have taught them boxing techniques that would build self-confidence, stamina and quick reflexes.

  Ten minutes later, Zach admitted that he’d procrastinated long enough. It was time to get out there and do the right thing for the class, despite his conflicted feelings about Summer.

  “Remember what Emma showed you on your first night of class?” he asked when Alex finished the warm-ups. Zach got into the fight position. “Imagine there’s a line on the floor, right between your legs. We’ll call it the toe-heel line. First, plant your feet shoulder-width apart. Left toe touches the line, left heel angles slightly outward. Right heel is on the line, right toe angles out.”

  He checked to make sure everyone had planted their feet properly. “Okay, now bend your knees and crouch a little. Get that right heel up off the floor. Balancing on the ball of your foot makes it easier to move fast.”

  Soon, every woman was doing her best to emulate Muhammad Ali, bobbing and weaving, feinting jabs and ducking punches. After ten minutes of that, he showed them how to mix in the defensive skills they’d already learned.

  “Use your head to protect your head, and your body to protect your body.” He waved Alex closer. “You’re allowed to fight dirty. You’re supposed to fight dirty when you’re fighting for your life.”

  Zach looked at every student, and saw that Summer’s assailant had succeeded in pinning her arms to her sides.

  “Use combinations,” he suggested. “Like elbow jabs to your attacker’s eyes and ears. A knee to the groin. A foot planted hard on the knee. An elbow to the ear. The point is to inflict as much pain as possible in as little time as possible, so that the assailant will go down, and you can run for help.”

  He sensed, rather than saw, Summer’s eyes on him. But he had to ignore her. Had to forget what had been done to her and teach all of these women some rudimentary skills, so that what happened to her would never happen to them. So that, in the unlikely event Summer faced a similar
situation, she wouldn’t be victimized again.

  “Balance,” Zach said, “can literally save your life. Don’t kick your attacker, because it’s extremely difficult to stay upright on one foot while he’s doing his best to knock you down. He’ll expect you to smack his face. So surprise him. Drive your elbow into that soft hollow below his sternum instead.”

  A few of the women held the semicrouched position, punching at the air. Others stood, shoulders slumped and arms limp, as if they had no idea what to do. And Zach called them on it.

  “What if your attacker charges while you’re standing there, arms at your sides?”

  He walked up to Luke’s mother—one of the immobile few—and, bending at the waist, he stared her down.

  “Think fast, Cecile. What would you do if, right now, an attacker approached?”

  “I-I’d dig my elbow into his neck?”

  “Don’t tell me, show me!”

  She lifted her arm, and Zach blocked it.

  He stepped up to the next woman.

  “Your attacker is about to punch your lights out, Anne. What do you do?”

  “Stick both of my elbows up, to protect my face?”

  “Yes! Because if you do it fast enough, he’ll hurt his hand.”

  “You’re scaring us,” Cecile said.

  “Good. I’m glad. That’s my job. Whether you’re attacked in a parking lot or in your own home, you’ll find out real fast that you’re in a fierce fight for your life. Everything is going to happen in a blur. You won’t know a thing about your attacker, except that he means to hurt you…or worse. It’s gonna be an ugly, noisy, dirty mess, so you have to use every ounce of aggression and power in you. If you don’t win, he will.”

  Zach let his words sink in. Then he flashed his most charming smile and said, “Now go home and work on some moves. I expect to see them on Wednesday.”

  *

  ON WEDNESDAY, WHEN Zach walked into the classroom, Summer was going from student to student, sharing a ballpoint so that one by one, they could sign the get-well card for Emma’s grandmother. She was the first to spot him, and met him halfway between the door and the whiteboard.

  “Did you have a chance to visit Emma?”

  Zach steeled himself because man, she looked gorgeous tonight.

  “No, but I’ve talked with her a couple of times. She says they’re only allowing family into her grandmother’s room.”

  “Oh, no. That isn’t a good sign.” Her eyebrows rose slightly. “How is Emma holding up?”

  “Not getting enough sleep, worrying about the bills that are already stacking up. So I told her to forward them to me.”

  “To you? That’s really n—”

  “No big deal,” he finished. “I invested the few dollars my grandfather left me. Between that, my penny-pinching personality and what the studio brings in, I do okay.”

  She smiled. “Still, it’s a very nice thing to do.”

  He smiled, too. “I told you, nice is just the Marshall way.”

  Instantly, Zach regretted the joke, because it sounded cocky and self-serving, even to his own ears.

  “That came out all wrong,” he admitted. “What I meant to say was—”

  “Your family is nice. Nothing wrong with admitting that.”

  She looked down at the greeting card she held, and Zach was tempted to tuck that mind-of-its-own curl behind her ear. He noticed a scattering of freckles peeking through her thick, dark lashes. Why hadn’t he seen them before? And why did they stir a strange yearning in his heart?

  She handed him the card. “Emma is lucky to have a friend like you.” She tapped the card with her pen. “I know you’ll probably send one of your own, but since this is from all of us at Marshall Law, I think you should sign it, too.”

  He laid it on his clipboard and scribbled, We miss you around here! and returned the card. Summer returned to the circle of women who laughed and chattered as they added their good wishes to the greeting.

  Zach thought about what he’d written. He really did miss Emma. He’d taught her everything he could about self-defense and, when he thought she was ready, promoted her to instructor. Even before he’d made her his assistant, Zach had treated her like an equal, but he wasn’t sure he’d earned the title Summer had bestowed: friend.

  “You ready to get started, boss?”

  The kid startled him so badly, Zach nearly dropped his clipboard.

  “Sorry,” Alex said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “My own fault,” he admitted. “Let that be a lesson to you—never let down your guard.” He winked. “Now, round ’em up and tell ’em we’ll get started in five.”

  “Should we use the big gym tonight, since you’re teaching two classes at once?”

  “Good idea. They’ll have more elbow room that way.”

  While the teen ushered the women into the classroom, Zach shook his head. He didn’t like feeling distracted, out of sorts. Liked the reason for it even less: Summer Lane.

  He took a moment to gather his thoughts, then walked into the classroom. Later, when he was home alone, he’d figure out a way to build a wall between himself and Summer. But where will you find a sheet of stainless steel three feet thick?

  The women were so busy talking—about the recent snowfall, Emma’s accident, Monday night’s gritty and grueling class—that no one noticed him enter. No one, that is, but Summer. Steel, he reminded himself, and looked at anything and everything to avoid making eye contact with her.

  He put his efforts into gaining the students’ attention, but nothing worked—not clapping his hands or waving his arms, not even yelling.

  “Ladies!” he barked, but it barely quieted the high-pitched din.

  “Never thought I’d see the day,” Alex said, shaking his head.

  “What day?”

  “When you lost control.” Grinning, Alex made an O of his thumb and forefinger, put it between his teeth, and cut loose with an ear-piercing, two-note whistle.

  Instantly, the women became silent and faced the front.

  Smirking, Alex bowed. “They’re all yours, boss.”

  Zach chuckled at his assistant’s antics, then instructed his students to stand, arms parallel to the floor. “Spread out,” he said, “until you’re not touching your neighbor.”

  With the women in position, he began his lecture.

  “You’ve learned how to apply a few moves against an assailant who approaches from the front. Tonight, I’m going to show you how to defend yourself against someone who sneaks up from behind.”

  Don’t look at her. Do not look at her.

  “Who practiced the moves I showed you on Monday?” He held up his right hand, and every woman facing him did, too.

  “Good, because tonight, you’re gonna need them.”

  Zach explained that being attacked from the rear was far more likely than full-on frontal assault.

  “He’ll catch you completely by surprise, grab the hood of your jacket, your shoulder, your hair. And once he has you, he’ll bring you close, throw an arm around your neck and pull you tight against him, making it next to impossible to move…or breathe. It’s a lot easier to break a hand-hold than a chokehold, so your objective is to do whatever you can to make sure you don’t get into that position in the first place.”

  According to Libby, Summer’s attacker had grabbed her ponytail, then applied the chokehold until she passed out. He didn’t even want to think about what the guy did after that.

  The first rule, he told the women, was to remain calm. “No matter how scared you are, take slow, deep breaths. It’ll help keep your mind and body relaxed enough to think and plan your next move. Always remember—panic can be deadly.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Summer rubbing her temples. Maybe, despite her bravado, she wasn’t ready for all the in-your-face reminders of what she’d gone through.

  He demonstrated the chokehold, using Alex as his victim. As he demonstrated each protective, preventive move, he
explained the proper way to carry them out.

  “As soon as you sense someone is trying to take control of you from behind, raise your least dominant arm. Let’s assume you’re right-handed. You’ll raise your left arm above your head and turn left, all the way around, right into the guy, and use that hand—or elbow, or fist—to deliver a strike to his head, neck, or throat. If you hit hard enough to incapacitate him, you need to run like hell, screaming at the top of your lungs.

  “If he turns with you, raise your other arm and turn in the opposite direction. He won’t expect that. The momentum generated by your turn will give you a chance to jab a knee into his groin or belly.”

  He stepped away from Alex and aimed his forefinger at the class.

  “If you’ve kept up with your exercises, if your core is strong and your balance is sure, even the smallest of you can strike with enough power to dislocate an attacker’s hip, crack a rib or at the very least, knock the wind out of him.”

  Every woman smiled at that possibility. All but Summer, that is. Was it his imagination, or did her creamy complexion look more pale than usual? How could he avoid looking at her now, knowing that she might pass out?

  “I’ll run through the next move,” he said, watching her in his peripheral vision. “Afterward, you’ll practice both tactics, first on your own then on one another, and finally,” he said, emphasizing the word, “with me.”

  Whispers and soft gasps floated around the room, and he grinned to himself, knowing that not even the flirty Mrs. Murphy was looking forward to that.

  “Let’s assume your attacker comes at you, head-on. If you let him grab you by the throat, there’s very little you can do to defend yourself. So your objective, always, is to make sure he never gets close enough to wrap his hands around your neck.”

  He ran down the rules they’d learned on their first night of class.

  “Always be aware of your surroundings. Look at the people around you. Trust your instincts. And never ever hesitate to defend your personal space. If someone makes you feel vulnerable, or even slightly uncomfortable, get as far from the threat as you can, as fast as you can. Because more often than not, someone trying to subdue you will be bigger, stronger, might even have some experience at overpowering women. Won’t he be surprised when he finds out that, although you’re smaller and he outweighs you, you’re anything but defenseless. You know what to look for, and you know not to let anyone get close enough to grab you by the throat.”